


Together, Forever

by sparxwrites



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Horror, Illnesses, Mind Games, Suicide, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-16
Updated: 2013-08-16
Packaged: 2017-12-23 07:35:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/923628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparxwrites/pseuds/sparxwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the back of his mind somewhere, Sam had expected to die on a hunt. For all his hopes of a normal life, a white-picket-fence, apple-pie lifestyle, after Jess - and maybe even before her - he’d known he’d die with a gun in his hand and something big, bad, and ugly bearing down on him.</p>
<p>He finds it a little ironic how wrong he was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Together, Forever

**Author's Note:**

> There are a whole load of trigger warnings in the tags. Please, please, please look at them before reading.

In the back of his mind somewhere, Sam had expected to die on a hunt. For all his hopes of a normal life, a white-picket-fence, apple-pie lifestyle, after Jess - and maybe even before her - he’d known he’d die with a gun in his hand and something big, bad, and ugly bearing down on him.

He finds it a little ironic how wrong he was.

There was no warning he was dying. No warning - other than a few weeks of coughing up blood, a few months of chest pains and breathing difficulties. He should have seen a doctor, should have told Dean, except the worry would have crushed his brother and he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Couldn’t bring himself to be the straw that broke his brother’s back.

And then it was too late. He woke up in the middle of the night, choking on his own blood and unable to stop coughing, and he wished to God he’d said something,  _anything_ , because couldn’t cry out past the blood and when he tried to stand his legs buckled, because there was no air, no oxygen…

He was dying, he knew. Could feel it in his chest, in the swimming blood where there should be none inside, in the panic-fight-flight-terror racing in his head. This was it, the end, goodbye, lights out. No more Sammy.

He wondered, as his limbs  went numb and his vision purpled, as he screamed silently against the gurgling in his chest, whether to write something with the blood streaming from his mouth, a final message smeared in crimson - but he didn’t know what to say.  _Dean_  would only twist the knife deeper in his brother’s chest, and  _sorry_  felt too close to the parting words of a suicide note. Eventually, hand shaking, blood rattling in his chest, he dragged his fingers through the mess spilling across the hardwood floor, and stretched a arm out-

The oxygen deprivation knocked him out half way through the  _o_ , vision greying and pulsing wildly before failing altogether, limbs going heavy and loose as his other senses dulled. He never felt that last minute, his heart beating frantically enough to burst in his chest, his brain dying piecemeal as its frantic cries for oxygen went unheeded. In a way, it was a mercy, a final act of kindness from a cruel universe, that Sam Winchester never heard his own, final, death-rattle breath as he drowned from the blood slowly filling his lungs.

And that’s where he’s lying now, body splayed out on the cold floor and leaking blood from its mouth and nose - the dark, sticky stuff that’s already starting to dry and clot. It’ll be glue-like in the morning, when Dean finds him, tacky and sticking the side of his face to the floor as his brother shakes him, screams at him, pries his body out of the crimson smears and clutches it close as he stares with empty eyes at the  _love yc_  written in his brother’s blood.

It’ll stay there, too, when Dean gently lowers it to the floor, on its back, strokes the hair out of its face with gentle fingers and kisses its forehead. It’ll stay there as Dean goes into his room, gets the gun he keeps in his bedside table, and comes back with it clutched in his hand. And then he’ll lay down next to it, press the muzzle to his chest, and smile sadly up at the ceiling. “See you in Heaven, Sammy,” he’ll whisper, closing his eyes and letting his finger curl just a little tighter. “Cas, we’re coming to visit you. You’d better have our rooms ready, you son of a bitch.”

Then he’ll take Sam’s hand in his, the cold fingers stiff and unnatural but still his brother’s, and he’ll pull the trigger.

The sound of the gunshot and a single, shocked exhale won’t disturb anyone.

Castiel’s screams, as he sobs and rages in the prison of white walls and tight smiles Naomi has made for him, won’t disturb anyone either. Not even Naomi herself. She’ll wait, patiently, until he’s got nothing left, no more tears or words or anger, and then she’ll explain that it had to be like this. They had to die. And then she’ll tell him it’s not so bad - at least this way, he won’t have to drive a blade through Dean’s chest and watch the betrayal in the hunter’s eyes as the life slowly leaves them.

The worst part is, Castiel will be grateful for that.

She won’t let him go to give the bodies a proper burial, though. They’ll will lie there, side by side, for the next ten years, before they’re disturbed by some children nosy and determined enough to break past the fading wards and enchantments and break into the house. By then, they’ll be only skeletons, picked clean and still side-by-side with their hands entwined. They’ll be the talk of the city for a week or two, and then gradually they’ll be forgotten. No one will know their names, what these two people did for humanity and the world. They’ll be recorded only in an old police report lost in a filing cabinet, and in the minds of those few that knew them who wonder, perhaps once a year, what happened to the Winchesters.

Castiel will spend the rest of his existence searching Heaven for them, every inch of it. He will travel through every tiny bubble of universe that every soul that has ever lived has carved out for itself, he will check all the spaces in between, the hidden nooks and crannies where small and timid things hide. He will raid every office and hallway of Heaven’s management, every place and building the angels have made their own. He will search  _everywhere._

He will never find them.

Sam and Dean will not spend the rest of their existences searching. They will spend it side by side, doing nothing very much, spread out on identical racks with blades digging into them and insides dripping out, covered in blood and filth and pain so thickly it will be near impossible to tell there was ever anything human underneath. They will spend the rest of their existences knowing the other is there, but being unable to touch them, even the slightest brush of fingers, unable to talk to the other because their vocal cords will always be the first thing taken when they’re freshly healed after each session, unable to even see the other as anything more than a faint blur at the corner of their eye, when they still have eyes.

They will spend the rest of their existence screaming _._

But they will spend it screaming  _together_.

**Author's Note:**

> I am so, so sorry.


End file.
